The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [135]
“It’s in here somewhere,” I insist, eyes locked on the screen.
Gillian’s silent, but the way she fidgets with her skirt, it’s like she sees something familiar. Something she knows. Her voice is slow in its deliberation. “Go to Imagineering,” she eventually suggests.
Charlie looks at me; I nod a quick approval. Duckworth’s old stomping ground.
He scrolls back up as quickly as he can. Imagineers. At the top, the VP of Imagineering is a handsome middle-aged man with a restrained, taunting grin. Underneath, his first lieutenant is about the same age, with a collection of double-chins that makes him look almost jolly. And below the two of them… is Marcus Dayal, a dark-skinned black man with an unmistakable cleft chin.
Charlie presses the photo strip against the screen to match up the pictures. The static electricity on the monitor holds it in place. Perfect match.
“I’m telling you, we’d whup the Hardy Boys’ asses anyday,” he says.
“Press the button,” I insist, barely able to contain myself.
Moving the cursor over Marcus’s digital photo, Charlie clicks it once and starts the countdown.
Once again, nothing happens. And then—once again—some-thing does.
“They’re heeeere…” Charlie whispers as the screen fades to black.
This time, though, it’s different than before—a cascade of images appear, and just as quickly vanish. Web page after web page opens at whirlwind speed, their words and logos fading immediately after they appear: Team Disney Online… Company Directory… Employee Locator—the cursor’s moving and clicking in every direction, like it’s surfing through the site on fast-forward. The rush of images fly at us, faster and faster, deeper into the website and further down the wormhole. The pages are skimming past us at such high speeds that they merge in a dark purple blur. I’m almost dizzy from staring at it, but only a fool would look away.
And then the brakes kick in. A single, final image slaps the screen. I actually jump back as it stops. So does Charlie. To her credit, Gillian doesn’t flinch.
“Here we go…” Charlie says.
He’s right about that one. Wherever we are, this is it. Duckworth’s three-hundred-and-thirteen-million-dollar idea.
64
Practically blocking my view, Charlie’s leaning so close to the screen, his chest presses against the keyboard. As I pull him back, it takes me all of two seconds to recognize what he’s gaping at. The midnight blue Greene & Greenelogo on the top left. The est. 1870sign on the top right.
“A bank statement?” Charlie asks.
I nod, checking it myself. At first glance, that’s all it is—just a regular, end-of-the-month bank statement. Except for the Greene logo, it doesn’t look any different from the monthly statement at any bank: deposits, withdrawals, account number—all the pieces are there. The only difference is the name of the account holder…
“Martin Duckworth,” Charlie reads from the screen.
“This is dad’s account?” Gillian asks.
“… 72741342388,” I read out loud as my finger brailles the numbers on the screen. “This is definitely his—the same as the one we—” I cut myself off as soon as Gillian glances my way. “The same as the original one we looked at,” I tell her.
Smooth,Charlie says with a look.
I turn back to Gillian, but her eyes are now glued to the screen… and to the box that’s labeled Account Balance: $4,769,277.44.
“Four million?” Gillian asks, confused. “I thought you said the account was empty?”
“It was… it’s supposed to be,” I insist defensively. She thinks I’m lying. “I’m telling you, when I called from the bus, they said the balance was zer—”
There’s an audible click and all three of us turn to the monitor.
“What was…?”
“There,” I say, once again stabbing a finger at the screen. I point to the Account Balance: $4,832,949.55.
“Please tell me that just went up,” Charlie says.
“Does anyone remember what it said before it—”
Click.
Account Balance: $4,925,204.29.
None of us says a word.
Click.
Account Balance: $5,012,746.41.
“If my mouth opens any wider, my chin’s gonna hit the carpet,” Charlie blurts. “I don’t believe it.”